Томас Осборн Дэвис (Thomas Osborne Davis)

Argan Mór

THE DANES rush around, around;
To the edge of the fosse they bound;
Hark! hark, to their trumpets’ sound,
            Bidding them to the war!
Hark! hark, to their cruel cry,
As they swear our hearts’ cores to dry,
And their raven red to dye;
            Glutting their demon, Thor.

Leaping the rath upon,
Here ’s the fiery Ceallachàn,—
He makes the Lochlonnach wan,
            Lifting his brazen spear!
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down,
For the spear broke right through his crown.
Yet worse did the battle frown,—
            Anlaf is on our rear!

See! see! the Rath’s gates are broke
And in—in, like a cloud of smoke,
Burst on the dark Danish folk,
            Charging us everywhere,—
O, never was closer fight
Than in Argan Mór that night,—
How little do men want light,
            Fighting within their lair.

Then girding about our king,
On the thick of the foes we spring,—
Down—down we trample and fling,
            Gallantly though they strive;
And never our falchions stood,
Till we were all wet with their blood,
And none of the pirate brood
            Went from the Rath alive!

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